Tracking Trust
by Drowning Ostrich
Summary: After “Home Invasion,” Neal gets a startling and unwelcome dose of self-awareness, and Peter sends himself on an errand. Reflections on the difficulty of trust and how a little device offers temporary respite.
1. Chapter 1

**Tracking Trust**

* * *

Rating: T for mild language

Not slash. I don't own the rights to White Collar or much of anything, really—so suing would be pointless.

_After "Home Invasion," Neal gets a startling (and unpleasant) dose of self-awareness and Peter sends himself on an errand. Reflections on the difficulty of trust and how a little device offers temporary respite._

* * *

I wrote almost all of Neal's part before seeing this past week's episode ("Home Invasion"), but it's pretty cool that some of the parts are even more meaningful in that context! But there were also things that were necessary to add/edit to this after having seen it.

I hadn't written the Peter POV (2nd chapter), yet, and seeing the ep changed what I was going to do completely. I though there was a little disconnect from previous episodes where they were really showing that Peter and Neal's trust in each other was growing by leaps and bounds. "Home Invasion" was like a step back—especially for Peter. So I wanted to capture that in this, too. Where are their respective insecurities and why did they react as they did?

This fic won't make a lot of sense if you haven't seen "Home Invasion," since it's largely a mental reflection on the episode. It's set a day after the last scene.

Also, this concept is pretty unoriginal, but I wanted to work through it in my own words. I did read the first chapter of Mojave Dragonfly's "Off the Leash," which I think does a great job of introducing some important concepts, so hope I didn't copy too much. I really wanted to post this so I could go finish reading that fic, haha!

* * *

Part One

He had figured it out. Unwillingly.

It was one of those freaky and uncomfortably aware moments, when his mind was slowly drifting out of a dream but not yet awake. When the subconscious was still wildly free with wide access to whatever imaginings and realizations the waking mind would reflexively suppress.

It wasn't surprising that his subconscious had drifted to that particular topic. After all, he'd had uncomfortable reminders of it all night long.

It itched sometimes. Lying on his left side was out of the question. It reminded him of the time he'd worn a cast after breaking his foot when he was 11, and all the resentment of missing a summer of running free came back to add to his irritation. Only, the cast had come off after six weeks.

This was a leash. That wouldn't come off for 200 weeks. A ball and chain, tying him to two square miles of concrete, a stern and demanding partner, and a real job with grown-up responsibilities, expectations, rules, judgment and no small amount of scorn. From both sides. He was the errand boy of his former enemies, who would never forget. Which naturally shifted his former "colleagues" into the enemy category now. He had switched sides, which meant he fit in neither.

Strange that such a small accessory could simultaneously represent one side's mistrust—they had slapped a replacement on less than half an hour after they'd caught up to him two nights ago—and act as a signal advising the other side to mistrust him, too.

Stranger still that this symbol of mistrust constantly reminded him that _he_ had finally, inexplicably, insanely learned to trust someone else. And a _Fed_ of all people.

Strangest of all, he realized, as he came awake early that morning—first with quiet calm then with indignant consternation—he liked it. Liked it!

Despite the humiliation. Despite being trapped, confined. Despite having to play by other people's rules—well, mostly. Even being kept from finding Kate, finding answers, finding his own way forward.

He liked the bulky, uncomfortable, stupid tracker.

He threw the sheets back and whirled out of bed, suddenly wide-awake and horrified. He stood paralyzed for a moment. He couldn't stay within these four walls. He needed to get out. Before another thought could enter his head, he was out in the hallway. In silk pajamas and bare feet.

'Breathe,' he told himself. He was Neal Caffrey. He was about control and doing things right.

Collecting the poise his revelation had just shredded, he spun around and walked back into his flat, not stopping to shut the door as he stalked over to the bathroom and authoritatively flipped on the light when he entered the tiled room. He tried to clear his mind as he brushed his teeth, scrubbing harder as he gave in to the outrage his traitorous feelings had filled him with. There was some blood when he spit but he didn't mind—in fact, it was a bit satisfying. Quickly steering his mind from that line of thinking, he reached for his shaving cream and began lathering it on his face.

_The moment he'd cut the tracker off as Pierce had demanded, the familiar thrill of being _**free**_ was dwarfed by much-less-welcome fear. And it didn't have much to do with the gun the other thief held in her hand or the fact that she was indirectly threatening June, his hostess and a generous, kind, unjudgmental friend—a truer treasure than anything the con had ever taken._

_He was afraid. That Peter would believe he had indeed betrayed him. Would he finally give up on Neal? Would he lose…whatever it was he had? It was obviously not unconditional trust. Peter had made that perfectly clear that night, accusing Neal outright of conspiring with Pierce. And blaming him for her escape. What was that about all of a sudden? Weren't they past that sort of thing?? It had hurt enough to make him angrier than he could remember being in a very long time._

_And yet the first thing he did was figure out a way to warn Peter._

As he reached for his razor, he finally glanced up at the mirror to begin shaving and froze as he met his own eyes.

He was still afraid. And the bravado wasn't hiding it very well.

A familiar voice echoed in his head, and he was taken back to that time long ago when everyday was filled with helplessness.

"_You know what your problem is, kid?"_

_How many times had he been asked that?_

"_You want to trust people. Which means you can trust yourself least of all. You see, I'm really helping you here, teaching you a valuable lesson."_

_More words had followed, then more pain, then darkness—instead of restful sleep, a terrifying void._

He realized he was painfully clenching the handle of his razor. And his hand was shaking. Damn. He leaned against the sink and focused on nothing but breathing. He had had practice with this. Every morning for four years he had woken up to a wall of lines, increasing day after day, each stroke representing loss. Loss of four years of his life. Life with Kate. Loss of control, his ability to decide his own destiny. And he had maintained an inner calm—most of the time—and a sense of optimism his fellow inmates rarely understood. For him, those lines were a countdown. He had found someone to trust and love, and he had been sure that would survive the four years until he could make her the center of his life again.

He began shaving, running the blade over the contours of his face in quick, confident strokes.

She _had_ waited. Every week she came, showing that someone cared about him. That high sustained him, week to week. Of course he trusted her. Enough to risk everything again, when he was so close to that most heady of enticements—freedom. Even now, when things were so confusing…he clung to his faith in her, which made his life meaningful even when it wasn't his own.

He rinsed off his face and patted it dry.

Things had changed when he traded in his jumpsuit for an anklet. A scowl, uncharacteristic of him, crossed his face. Now he trusted Peter, too.

Enough to risk his life.

Enough to wait on helping Kate.

Enough to like a hunk of plastic and wires that gave him an excuse not to screw it up.

Because he wanted to be trusted back. That was a new one.

And he hated it. Because he trusted Peter—heck, he even trusted Elizabeth—and he desperately trusted Kate. But he didn't trust himself. So he clung to the collar that conceptually took away the requirement of trust but still tied him to the track he was more and more reluctant to deviate from. Because he cared now. Damn. And that was dangerous, because it meant after all these years, he was still allowing himself to be controlled by what amounted to wishful thinking.

_"You want to trust people."_

Hadn't he said it himself in those moments of shameful honesty?

_"I trust you, Peter."_

Suddenly he was exhausted. Thinking was getting him nowhere right now. He glanced out the bathroom door to the clock on the wall. Still had a few hours before he would be expected at the office. Obviously he wasn't going to run.

Flipping off the light he shambled over to his bed and pulled the rumpled covers half over himself as he lay down, leaving his ankle with the tracker dangling over the side of the bed. He stared at it for a couple of beats before closing his eyes. Contradictory as it was, the clasp of the band and the slight weight above his foot was…comforting. As long as he had that anklet, he could pretend he had no choice in the matter. Regardless of the downfall he was setting himself up for, he could pretend he was safe for now.

**End Part One**

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More author's notes:

I know, I hinted about stuff in Neal's past without explaining anything. Meh. The way I figure it, he must have gotten into crime young (he's still pretty young, and he's really good, so…). His strong dislike of guns can't have come without experience. He has a natural, naïve tendency to trust warring with experience and a profession that strictly forbids it. I just made up a suitably vague encounter with a suitably vague mean guy to highlight it for this.

Random question maybe someone knows: Why, if the jade elephants were from China, did the Japanese government claim them as _their_ historical artifacts in the episode?

Story idea I'd love read: What if Pierce hadn't flinched and turned away when the power came on? What if she fired that shot she had been preparing just before the FBI burst in? C'mon, a little hurt/comfort fic.

Second story idea I'd love to see: Adorable Dan pairs up with Neal to solve a crime! Hehehe. I want more Dan goofiness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Tracking Trust**

* * *

Rating: T for mild language

Not slash. I don't own the rights to White Collar or much of anything, really—so suing would be pointless.

After "Home Invasion," Neal gets a startling (and unpleasant) dose of self-awareness and Peter sends himself on an errand. Reflections on the difficulty of trust and how a little device offers temporary respite.

* * *

Can you believe Peter's part is longer?

* * *

Part Two

Peter tapped the steering wheel with his fingers in irritation as he stared at the mansion in front of him. It looked like one of those fancy birdcages the longer he glared at it. Perfect for its current notorious inhabitant.

He shook his head and pushed the car door open. Sitting was making it worse. He crossed the street and trotted up the steps, pausing at the front door. Maybe this was a bad idea. Neal was probably still miffed over their quarrel a couple of nights ago. Per Elizabeth's always-excellent advice, he was making the first step towards reconciliation by picking his partner up for work. If he would let him. Neal might be inclined to give him the cold shoulder and walk off again as he had that night they argued. He had left before Peter was even awake the next morning, and he'd certainly been less than chummy yesterday at the office, all disdain and sarcasm as he neatly kicked Peter out of his quarters and his "private" life. If he was honest with himself, he really couldn't blame Neal, considering how he had handled the last case.

For the first time he felt like he had let Neal down instead of the other way around.

And he had covered for it by making it seem like Caffrey's fault that he still wasn't trusted.

_"You tell me."_

He'd felt like an idiot for saying it again—it was starting to be a catch phrase of his every time Neal brought up trust or their partnership. Usually it was to show that the ball was in Neal's court, his responsibility not to let Peter down. This time it hadn't really been called for. This time it was Peter who had blown it—Alex wouldn't have intruded if he hadn't run her prints and Pierce wouldn't have run if Alex hadn't intruded. Neal had once again gone above and beyond to pursue their suspect and it had almost ended badly for him. And in his anger, Peter covered for himself by blaming Neal.

Of course, he reminded himself quickly, there _was_ plenty of reason to distrust Neal Caffrey. He was Neal Caffrey, the expert conman, after all.

But he was also Neal Caffrey _his partner_ now, and it was easy to call which one carried more weight with Peter these days. And Peter had believed his partner wasn't lying. This time.

When Cruz had walked into his office with that look on her face and told him Neal had cut his anklet, he had been more than disappointed. He had felt responsible. Maybe he'd gone too far and driven the ex-con to make another rash move. Only the week before, Neal had told him Peter was the only person he thought he could depend on. Maybe after Peter's vote of no confidence, he figured he didn't have anything to lose. It was hard to admit to the level of relief he felt when he found that code in the tracker's signal. Damn but that kid was brilliant. Peter couldn't help grinning a bit. After that, it was easy to admit to Jones and Cruz in the van that he trusted Neal. He was downright delighted in his own renewed confidence that he could follow his partner's lead.

He glanced at his reflection in the mansion window's glass and froze. Fear. Behind that admiring grin was fear. _Relief_, of course, was always preceded by fear. And it was that fear, more than anger, that had led him to lash out at Neal in the first place.

For all he stood up for Neal, for all he would admit he trusted the ex-con's general intentions, for all the ways he let the kid into his life, there was always that fear. That his faith was in vain.

That all he had risked for Neal would be thrown back in his face. And that would hurt. A lot. Because he cared now. Damn. That was dangerous, too, because he knew his judgment was being clouded by wishful thinking. And that brought another fear.

That he might lose.

Lose a young man whose incredible mind, creativity, skill, determination and caring nature were open to exploitation. Lose him to his own worst impulses. The ones that landed him in needless danger and returned only wasted years and broken dreams. The naïve…"_STUPIDITY_," he mentally growled…that allowed others to manipulate Neal for whatever selfish ends they could.

And the only thing he had come to realize stood a chance of protecting Neal from all of that was the strange eagerness Neal seemed to have to keep Peter's trust. Yes, he saw it. All the chances for escape or profit he let slip by, all the impulses he squashed, all the enthusiasm he brought to solving cases spoke volumes of Neal's desire to please Peter.

Heck, the kid had admitted it openly—twice—how much he trusted Peter. His request for reciprocity explicit in his words and his clear eyes.

Peter knew that Neal, in his own way, was even _asking_ for help in resisting the impulses he knew would mess things up. He had seemed downright anxious when faced with all the temptation provided by four floors of valuable antiques and art owned by someone like Dan, who didn't appreciate their real meaning and non-monetary value. He had asked Peter to let him go, get away from that temptation. Well, and Dan. But his openness had surprised Peter, actually.

So had his request to send a message to Kate. Not to see her. Neal was trusting him in his quest to "free" Kate. Which had floored him. And made him hope like he hadn't allowed himself to before.

Well, that's what he had thought. Then there was the lie about her reply—he hadn't pressed it at the time, because he didn't know what the paper flower—yes, he saw it—really meant, and Neal may tell him in his own time. Then there was Alex. And the book with the music box that he had hidden when Peter came in. So Neal wasn't really planning to work with Peter to solve the Kate problem.

And suddenly he was afraid again. So he ran prints and lashed out and voiced his lack of trust in Neal. Thankfully Neal had returned it with yet another example of his dedication, leading them to finally arresting Pierce.

So he meant more to Neal than half of the $200 million the jade elephants would have brought. He was both stunned by this and…not. Because he knew Neal well enough now to understand that many things were more important to Neal Caffrey than money. It made him very different from many of the criminals the agent pursued. Neal had that complicated system of circumstantial honor, integrity and values that Peter could only begin to intuitively navigate.

So Peter's trust meant more than money—maybe even freedom. But not more than Kate.

Fear _again_. As long as someone who wasn't looking out for Neal's best interests had more influence over him, Neal was in very real danger. And that bothered him more than the simple fact that Neal was still lying to him.

Peter sighed and ran a hand through his hair, straightening up from where he had been leaning against the porch support. He glanced at his watch and muttered a curse. They were supposed to be at the office in 5 minutes. Either Caffrey had left before Peter arrived to wait for him or he was making them both late. Only one way to find out.

After being shown in by the maid, Peter bound up the stairs. The door to Neal's suite was ajar. Peter could think of no good reason why it would ever be left open—Neal wasn't a careless person. His mind flashed back to the events of the other night. His heart started beating a little faster as he walked quickly down the hall and gave the door a couple perfunctory knocks as he pushed it further open and stepped into the room. Peter's eyes immediately fell on Neal.

He was still in bed, one foot dangling over the side.

At first Peter wanted to laugh. It seemed so uncharacteristic to find him in total, unguarded disarray, as he was now, sprawled in his bed with the covers partially tossed over him. Then a twinge of concern. It was equally uncharacteristic for Neal to be late.

Peter moved closer, bending over slightly to lay a hand tentatively against the younger man's forehead. No fever, and he seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Well, maybe he was just particularly exhausted? The night of Pierce's capture had been tense for them all, but it was Neal who was at gunpoint—and Neal hated guns. As Peter had been peering through the curtains into his own dark house and seen that crazy woman's pistol pointed at his partner, he was inclined to agree.

Come to think of it, Neal had a strange talent for getting guns pointed at him. It seemed almost a karmic joke given his aversion to them. Peter realized he was frowning and took a step back, bumping into the foot Neal had draped over the side of the bed.

The tracker's steady light held his attention for a moment. For some reason it calmed him. It was comforting. It meant Neal was still here, still safe.

The tracker had probably saved Neal's life last night, acting as an alarm and a means of communication. Neal—stupid, brilliant, reckless—had communicated his faith in Peter in that brief message.

_I know you're smart enough to pick up this message. I know, despite everything, you want to trust me and you'll look for a reason to even when it's not the most obvious explanation. I know you'll do your best to save me. I know you're the best chance I've got._

Peter wondered how much Neal understood he had communicated.

Speaking of communicating.

"Neal!"

The ex-con bolted upright and Peter couldn't hold back a chuckle. What a time to be without his camera.

Neal looked at him for a moment, as if he couldn't really believe what he was looking at. Several emotions flickered across his face, too fast for Peter to accurately interpret—confusion, outrage, fear, relief?—before he adopted a guarded expression. An unusually open and honest guarded expression. Neal typically hid his this particular look behind layers of casual smiles and carefree banter.

"Peter. What are you doing here?"

He didn't feel like explaining the whole "waiting-to-drive-you-to-work-because-I-was-feeling-guilty thing," so Peter turned away and walked back to the door.

"Long, unimportant story. Hurry up, we should already be there," he threw over his shoulder.

Neal lifted an eyebrow. "Good morning, sunshine."

Peter allowed himself a small smile. There was the carefree bantering. He glanced back, mouth open to reply when he paused and squinted a little at Neal as something clicked into place.

"Did you already shave or do you always wake up groomed?" he quipped.

A smirk, then vivid blue eyes glanced at the glowing clock on the bedside table. The younger man quickly stood and trotted over to his closet.

"Long, unimportant story," he flung back in a sarcastic tone, "Hurry up and get us some coffee to go, we should already be there."

Neal's demand told his partner he knew Peter's presence meant he was feeling guilty and trying to make up for recent events. _Maybe too observant for his own good._

Before Peter could reply that he was, in fact, his boss and NOT the maid, Neal had dashed into the bathroom with the suit he had chosen from what was obviously a well-stocked wardrobe.

Peter closed his mouth, shook his head. Well, fine, he could do with a little Italian roast. For now, he'd take comfort in the small things, like coffee and collars and convicts who were learning. And teaching.

**End**

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Final author's notes:

I hope you guys were able to pick up on the parallels between Neal and Peter's musings. Um, right, haha, it wasn't that subtle. I think they're both at the same point where they're still thinking about themselves a little too much—worrying about the consequence for themselves that comes from trusting each other. They'll get past it, I've no doubt. Inevitable.

This has a SLIGHT chance of being the launching point for a longer story with actual plot, but…if I'm honest, it's unlikely. More likely to be a series of one-shots, if anything. So, for now, hope you enjoyed this tedious and overly dramatic and contemplative two-shot! I'd love feedback. This is my first published fanfic, so I know there's a lot to improve…thanks for reading. I have a little idea for a short epilogue (On a two-chapter fic?! Ridiculous!) from the maid's point of view. What do you mean, "what maid?"?! She was there, I swear. :) Probably with more sense than either of these two yahoos.

Other story ideas I'd love to see:

-Peter alone in his hotel room the night after Neal kicks him out. Thinking about the time they spent together as roomies. XD I'll bet he was TOTALLY truthful when he told Jones he was staying with Neal cuz he loved bugging him. Hehehe, you know Peter totally gets a kick out that.

-Lauren's POV when she finds out Neal's tracker was cut.

-Neal debriefing with Mozzie on the events of the episode and Mozzie's reaction.

-June's perspective during the events.


End file.
